


Reservation

by writing_addiction



Category: Yuri!!! on ICE
Genre: 2018 Winter Olympics, Angst with a Happy Ending, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, LGBTQ Characters, M/M, Trans Yuri Plisetsky, nothing too bad
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-19
Updated: 2018-02-19
Packaged: 2019-03-20 15:00:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,014
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13720146
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/writing_addiction/pseuds/writing_addiction
Summary: They’d been putting this off for days now.  He’s had time to stew.  (A conversation between best friends, spouses, and, most importantly, highly competitive Olympians.)





	Reservation

**Author's Note:**

> I'm no expert about figure skating or the Olympics, but I saw a fanart on Tumblr, which I'll link to when I can find it, which involved Viktor wearing the OAR uniform, and let me tell you, I have never been so quickly consumed by feels in my life.

“It’s your choice,” Yuuri told him, hands solemnly folded in his lap.

“Yes, but…” Viktor scrubbed a hand through his hair, as if that motion would somehow help him corral his wild thoughts into a coherent narrative. He was grasping at fragments, trying to put pieces together. Nothing quite made sense yet, and that only served to make him frustrated.

“But?” Yuuri prompted. He reached between them to take one of Viktor’s hands in his own. He meant it as a gesture of comfort, and in any other moment, it would have been. Instead, the cool touch of his husband’s fingers sent a chill through him even as his blood began to boil.

He shrugged, trying to calm himself down. “I don’t know. I suppose I was looking for your opinion.”

“I don’t know what I would do either,” Yuuri admitted, shrinking into himself and the couch a bit more. The tension in the air was palatable, and even though absolutely none of it was directed toward him specifically, Yuuri was always sensitive to the energy of the room. Viktor was trying not to exude any more negative emotions than was necessary, but they’d been putting off this conversation for days now. He’d had time to stew. For all that most people probably thought of him as flighty and impulsive, there was no easy way for him to face the consequences of his actions, no matter which way he might go. “I love Japan, and the thought of being chosen to represent my country at the Olympics makes me more proud and humbled and scared than I could have ever imagined. But still, it’s about more than that in the long run, right? Patriotism is all well and good, but—”

“I won’t be eligible to medal!” he’d interrupted, a bit more loudly and more aggressively than he’d intended. Yuuri had flinched hard, and Viktor had immediately regretted his tone. There was nothing he could do now; he couldn’t exactly unring the bell. He’ll apologize later for his harsh tone, but right now, he needed to get this out before he had time to bottle it up again. Leaning forward, he’d dropped his head in his hands and finally let himself admit the thought he’d been suppressing. “This will be my last serious athletic endeavor before I retire, and I have no chance to win anything, no matter how well I perform! A few assholes fucked everything up in Sochi four years ago, and now _I’m_ paying the price.”

Yuuri was silent for a long moment. Viktor could almost hear the gears in his brain grinding away. With a sigh, he fell back into the couch, slouching against the softness. He’d paid good money for this couch, and it was worth every ruble on days like this. “I sound like Yurio, don’t I?”

Yuuri let out a soft exhale, the world’s quietest laugh. “You’re certainly swearing like him.”

Viktor frowned. “Has he said anything to you yet?”

“Not really,” Yuuri admitted, “but I think he’ll go.”

“He should,” Viktor replied. “Yuri’s presence is important in ways mine never could be.”

“You were out in 2014, weren’t you?” Yuuri asked. It was an innocent enough question, but it still grated at his nerves.

“Yes and no. There’s a difference between information that’s common knowledge to friends and fellow skaters and information that’s leaked to the media and subsequently published without your knowledge or consent.”

“…oh.” Yuuri went quiet again, and Viktor had no doubt that his husband had forgotten about that fiasco until now. Most people had by now. It had been an attempt to divert attention away from the doping scandal. Ultimately it failed, because of course it did; how could it not? It had blown over fairly quickly, but that didn’t change the fact that someone, somewhere, had gotten their hands on a picture that showed Viktor kissing one of the male athletes from America. There had been a certain amount of romantic interest there—intensified no doubt by adrenaline and performance highs and the frankly staggering amount of free condoms. The photo itself was completely incidental. They were not the subjects, but just enough of their embrace had been captured in the background to make their intentions undeniable.

Needless to say, the romance died a quick death. Viktor sometimes wondered how long it might have lasted or how serious they could have been, but then he remembers that a certain Japanese man, drunk off his ass on champagne, had turned his world completely upside-down in the absolute best way. It was fun while it lasted, but ultimately, it was for the best that he and the American had parted ways.

(He would have preferred they be granted the space to make that decision on their own, however.)

“I forgot about that,” Yuuri said, his voice small and hesitant. “I’m sorry.”

He chuckled and pulled his husband closer. “No need to apologize, _solnyshko_. Besides,” he added quickly, forcing a smile as he pressed an obnoxiously loud kiss to Yuuri’s forehead, “I’m sure it relieved you to have confirmation that you could still be in the running for your idol’s affection someday.”

“Phichit says the Sochi Olympics were the main impetus for what he calls ‘The Great Bi Awakening of 2014’.”

“Still, though,” he said with a sigh, returning to the topic at hand, “I can already imagine the punishment Yuri is going to inflict on that ice. I almost feel sorry for the zambonis....”

“He’ll cry again; I’d bet anything. Won’t even make it to his final pose. It’s that whole, you know, ‘first openly transgender Olympian in history’ thing. He’s got a lot to prove. He’ll push himself too much. He’s made it a habit so far.”

He hummed in agreement. “He’s already screamed to everyone who will listen that we should all be aiming for gold, regardless of whether we’re actually awarded it or not.”

“The 2018 PyeongChang Winter Olympics: where everyone’s made up and the points _do_ matter.”

Viktor didn’t respond. Not because he was upset, but because he only vaguely understood the reference Yuuri was making. The name of the television show escaped him, but he remembered it was a comedy program of some sort. He wasn’t really in the mood for comedy, as well-intentioned as it may have been.

Yuuri pulled out his phone after a minute, quickly becoming absorbed by a game, and not long after, Viktor followed suit. He responded to a few texts he’d been ignoring—some accidentally, some purposefully—and checked his email. He opened a social media app, browsed for a few minutes absentmindedly, then closed it and opened another. And another. He couldn’t remember anything he saw, still too lost in his fairly circular train of thought. Yuuri pulled his feet up under himself and leaned more heavily onto him, and the motion was enough to break him out of his own head.

“Olympic Athletes from Russia,” he pronounced carefully, first in his native tongue and then, after a moment, in English. The words felt wrong in his mouth, foreign and unfamiliar. Yuuri said nothing, but he locked his phone screen and laid the device in his lap. Flopping his head against the back of the couch, Viktor groaned, “It sounds _terrible_.”

“Kind of, yeah.”

“And I’m sure the uniforms will have to be plain. And therefore ugly.”

“Maybe.”

“And we’ll be barred from using the Russian flag in any way, even during opening ceremonies.”

“Yep.”

Viktor sighed. He wasn’t aware there were tears in his eyes until he felt something run down his face. He felt like he should say something else, but for the life of him, he couldn’t figure out what it might be.

Luckily, Yuuri saved him. “Is that it?”

“Huh?”

“Are those the only reasons you’re thinking about not going?”

“…what?”

“Are you really so much of a fashionista that being in a plain uniform would bother you? Enough to keep you away from _the Olympics_?” When he didn’t answer, Yuuri continued. “And are you _really_ so patriotic that being unable to compete under your flag would keep you away? And does ‘OAR’ _really_ sound so disgusting to you that it would keep you away?”

“It’s the principle of the thing, Yuuri!” he argued. “I didn’t cheat, and yet I’m being penalized for the people who did.”

“The government is being punished, not you!” Yuuri exclaimed. He wiggled out of his comfortable position at Viktor’s side and turned to face him. “If there’s one thing Russia prides itself on in the sports world, it’s their constant churning out of amazing figure skaters. And yeah, the people who were caught doping deserve not to be competing this time, but what could hurt the ones in charge worse than seeing their precious skaters take all their training and talent and use it to display their artistry for the sake of the craft, for the sake of giving it their all and showing the entire world their best, all the while knowing they aren’t earning a single goddamn medal in the name of the people who betrayed their trust?!”

Yuuri took a deep breath, consciously easing the tension out of his shoulders, and asked, “Does your medal count matter so much to you that you’d be willing to imply that your national pride ultimately matters to you more than the sport you’ve dedicated your life to? Do you really want to side with a country that hates who and what you are and refuses to recognize your marriage?”

“Japan doesn’t recognize our marriage either,” he pointed out, and it’s probably the single most petulant thing he’s ever done in his life. As soon as the words left his mouth, he regretted them.

Thankfully, Yuuri either ignored his comment or understood the regret hanging in the air around them. He settled back into the couch, though this time he wasn't touching Viktor at all. “It's your choice,” Yuuri repeated.

“I know.”

“And now you have my opinion.”

“I certainly do,” he said through a laugh.

“I'll support you no matter what you decide.”

“I know. Thank you.”

“But…” Yuuri wiggled his way back over to Viktor's side and leaned into him. “I think you should go. If it's really going to be your last competition before you retire, then it would be cruel of you to deny me one last chance to be kick your ass.”

Admittedly it was the last thing he'd expected Yuuri to say, and his laughter took him by surprised. It burst out of him almost painfully, but he gave into it and let it flow out from his heart. When he finally regained his breath and the ability to speak coherently, he gasped, “Not exactly a fair fight if I can't have any real shot at a medal.”

“Not a medal,” Yuuri corrected. “Overall score. Points. We're in the reverse _Whose Line?_ arc, remember? It's not about medals or countries or anything like that. Just points. For the sake of the challenge.”

There were 3 things Viktor Nikiforov couldn't resist: a dare, a challenge, and his husband.

“Alright. You're on. I won't hold back.”

***

As it happens, Japan is officially awarded the gold and silver medals, and Spain the bronze medal, in men’s singles figure skating at the 2018 PyeongChang Winter Olympics.

The figure skaters of the Olympic Athletes from Russia team, however, all turn out new personal bests, and leave every other competitor in their dust.

(Yuri Plisetsky does, in fact, cry at the end of his free skate, and as he skates off the ice, and as he walks to the kiss and cry. When he receives his score, he jumps in the air and pumps his fists and almost starts crying again.  When he sees his friends and rinkmates again after the day's events have concluded, he makes them all take selfies with him, middle fingers extended, and posts them to his Instagram. The caption reads, “FUCK the haters!” in as many languages as he could convince his friends to translate it for him.)

**Author's Note:**

> Also, real quick, I have been informed by a friend who's ass deep into figure skating that the medaling issue is a bit more nuanced irl than in this fic. I certainly don't know the ins and outs of it completely, but I decided not to change the fic because I think it works better in this context.
> 
> Thank you for reading, and comments are much appreciated!


End file.
